


Coming Home

by crowleyshouseplant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Epilogue, Episode: s03e02 Chaos Rising, Gen, Genderqueer, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:59:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowleyshouseplant/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It scatters the moonlight.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

It’s been one day that Boyd has not seen the moon, and he’d rather see the stars, finding their patterns with his eyes, so much keener now that he was a wolf. Lay flat on his back in the course grass, Erica’s hand in his, and show her the stars, all dead now, like they soon were to be.

He rubs his hand against the wall of the vault, smooth against his palm. He thinks he can carve the days of his capture into the wall, tries to shift, and fails.

Human hands, human fingernails. He doesn’t break his nails, but wears them down to the nub. Erica watches with Cora, crouching on the ground, saying nothing.

It’s been a week that Boyd has not seen the moon, and he misses the silver face of her, her cheshire grin in the sky, her huge yellow eye turning alpha-red—

the sun never had a chance.

They allow some luxuries, they’re not monsters, they say, with their fine banks and their sharp teeth, and red eyes. He shaves his head, close to the scalp, the rough scape of the razor a stale whisper of morning ritual in a home still papered with posters of star trek and star wars.

Erica does the back, the parts he can’t reach or see.

Then Cora when Erica goes away.

He wishes for shaving cream. He wishes for soap. He wishes for Old Spice. He wasn’t the man your man could smell like simply because he was not a man or a boy, but no one knew that but him and the silence between his ears and his tongue, but he knew he could be the one your significant other could smell like, and that was good enough for him.

It’s been a month that Boyd has not seen the moon, and the absence of her slips under his skin like something hungry, longing and wanting.

He does pushups until his heart pounds, until his body slicks with sweat, shirt off so that it too does not become stiff with the salt of his body. His heart pounds against his rib cage, pushing the blood through him.

It’s not enough, he thinks. Perhaps his blood cannot fill his body and mind like it used to, not without the push and pull of the moon to guide the in and out of his breath. Blood drains from his heart, air from his mind as he pants on the floor, dried up sand and dust crying after an ever ebbing sea.

Come back, come back, he whispers through chapped lips.

It’s been two months that Boyd has not seen the moon, and they bend their knees on the ground, praying to gods with ears to hear to help them, praying to themselves that it’ll be okay that someone will come, and to himself to never give up hope, though he feels his soul has been cast away upon dried up shoals, to be scattered by the winds of his shallow breathing.

They don’t know why they are here. Cora says it is because banks are for investments, and that there is a big return if they pull out at the right time.

Erica says they must not be all that valuable if their pack has not come for them.

Boyd tries to put on the brave face, the one he wore before he had the fangs to match. “We’re the pack now.”

“Where is your alpha?” Cora says.

“Where are their betas?” Boyd says. “We don’t need an alpha.”

Boyd leans against the wall, closes his eyes. If he could see another face besides their captors, beside his fellows, it would be the face of the moon, blessing him with gifts that breaks him free, splits him from the seams, reminding everyone that he is so much, much more.

Then it would be Scott. Because Scott would care. Scott probably would not have made Boyd into a werewolf, but Scott never made him feel less like so many others had. When Scott said hello, are you okay, you knew you were more than someone’s after thought.

Then it would be his family. He had not seen them for so long.

They did not look at the moon either. But that was okay. He could show them. He would drive them to the country. He would carry them to the top of the mountains beyond the lights of the town, so small in comparison to the moon, yet dimming the sight of her from their eyes.

Then they would see, not as he saw, but almost as he saw.

It’s been three months that Boyd has not seen the moon, and he wonders that he remembers stars and moons at all. He stands, still and silent, unmoving under the high walls of their prison, head craned back, eyes, so human and wet, staring up and up.

The thought that he will not see the moon again weighs heavy on him, an anchor dragging his heart through dust as his tears are not enough to fill the ocean that has sunk away without the moon to pull it back again.

He clenches his hands harmlessly. He will not bleed, not from this. He wonders if the claws are there, waiting to come out, grafted to his bones. Have they become riddled with holes, hollow with need and want? He marvels that his wolf fits inside this poor sack of skin and bones, and yet he still feels empty, poured dry onto deserts. The only thing that can fill the empty spaces, is the moon.

He runs his hands over his head, nails scraping softly against his scalp. He wonders if he would find even a trace of her underneath his skin, slipped away like tiny secret things. He forces his hands down.

It’s been four months that Boyd has not seen the moon, but he feels her first, the silver light of her, so faint, crawling over his skin like a veil, coaxing his wolf, so thirsty and hungry after all this time, to wakefulness, his mouth, full once more, his eyes twin yellow pairs of harvest moons, his blood rising like a red tide pushing away the fear and the smallness, attunes to her as she whispers: come home, come home, come home.

He doesn’t care that Deucalion’s promised that they’ll be dead tonight—the moon and he says otherwise, and he’d like to see them try because he’ll fight for home, he’ll fight for himself, and he’ll fight for Erica and Cora, and against every big bad who ever tried to tear their worlds and hearts apart, scattering them as if they were only dust and sand instead of the moon.

He raises his head, his eyes, his heart, and howls.


End file.
